Like Father, Like Son
by Rookblonkorules
Summary: A few weeks into his stay at the Manor, Dick wakes up from a nightmare and receives some unexpected comfort from his guardian.


**Note:** Just some DaddyBats and younger Dick Grayson that's been playing around in my head for a while. I wanted to get it out of my system.

**Warning:** Some disturbing death and horror imagery ahead.

* * *

It replays in Dick's head like a movie.

The moment when the rope snaps, sending both his parents plummeting to their deaths.

Though it can't have been nearly that loud when it happened, the snap is like a cannon shot. It reverberates through his head, bouncing off the inside of his skull.

His father's despairing cry, his mother's high wail of terror- he wants to collapse to his knees, cover his ears to blot out the sound.

Except he can't. He can't move. He's a helpless spectator to his parents' murder all over again.

Dick wants to scream out a warning, but his lips are sealed shut.

He strains to reach them, tries to call out, but all that he manages is a choked whimper when their bodies shatter against the ground. Bones crunch to dust and blood spatters like rain drops.

A cacophony of horrified screams rises from the spectators.

And Dick- Dick can do nothing but stand there.

Horror has lodged his voice in his throat till he feels like he might choke.

A hand lands on his shoulder, its gentle pull irresistible. The stench of death fills his nostrils.

Dick closes his eyes and swallows thickly. He's terrified of what he'll see and yet he has no choice but to turn around.

His eyes open of their own volition and he finds himself staring into a pair of empty eye sockets.

A yell dies in his throat.

A broken face is framed by lank and rotting dark hair; a shattered body barely holds itself back together.

And beneath that, Dick can see the unnatural bend of broken limbs.

A withered hand slips into his own.

Automatically, Dick tries to pull back, a terrified whine bleeding from his throat, but the decayed fingers hold him entrapped.

"My little robin," a voice comes from the macabre vision and… that voice.

He knows that voice, but it's different, tainted.

It's _wrong._

"M-m-mom?"

Dick wakes up screaming.

He's drenched in sweat, clothes sticking to him uncomfortably, and his racing heart is frantically trying to escape his body in a series of staccato beats.

His shoulders are shaking and he grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block out the vision of a rotting and shattered corpse.

He can't breathe.

The covers are constricting and the darkness is suffocating.

He kicks the blankets off of himself and off the side of the bed. His bare feet connect with the hardwood floor and he hurries out of the room. He can no longer stay there.

Once out, he slides to the floor, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth to muffle his sobs. He pulls his knees against his chest, a protective barrier against the darkness.

He's had nightmares before, always that awful moment replaying in his dreams.

Not for a few days, though, and never like this. Never this bad.

Dick hadn't been naive enough to believe that they had left him forever. He knew the sight of his parents' shattered bodies would haunt him for the rest of his life.

But the man responsible for their murder had been caught.

Tony Zucco is in prison, likely will be for the rest of his life.

Dick had hoped that that would be the first step in putting this behind him, in moving forward.

Apparently, he's been wrong.

"Dick?"

Dick starts, hand jerking away from his mouth. He scrambles to stand up, except maybe his legs aren't ready for that, and he ends up giving up.

Even in the darkness, when he tilts his head up, he can make out the figure of Bruce Wayne as the man crouches down next to him.

He hadn't even heard him coming.

But then he had been too lost in his own suffering to really pay attention to anything else.

And then there's the small matter of Bruce being… well, Dick _knows_ he's not allowed to speak of it, but right now, he isn't even sure if he's allowed to _think _it.

He'd thought, with the Manor as big as it is, with Bruce doing what he does, that his nightmare wouldn't have been overheard by anyone.

Apparently, he's been wrong about that too.

Or maybe Bruce really was just wandering about the Manor this late at night and happened to stumble across him.

_Yeah, right._

"What's wrong, Chum?"

Bruce's words are soft, but Dick still flinches when his giant hand lands on his shoulder.

"I don't want to talk about it," Dick says softly. He folds his arms around himself, nails clenching in the fabric of his nightshirt.

Besides, as likely as not, Bruce already know what's wrong- it isn't like it's that hard to figure out.

So why should he waste words on something he doesn't want to talk about?

"Was it another nightmare?"

There's a moment in which Dick wonders what part of _I don't want to talk about it _went over the man's head.

But his head dips gently in acquiescence.

Dick sees Bruce shift a bit out of the corner of his eye, hears the rustle of his clothing, and is afraid that the man will press him to talk about it.

Instead, Bruce settles comfortably next to him and doesn't say anything.

Dick pulls his knees tighter against his chest, burying his face against them.

Bruce makes no comment.

A long moment of silence where nothing, not even the shadows in his head, speaks follows.

Finally, Bruce moves again, one long leg stretching out against the hall.

"I want to show you something," he says gently. "If you're alright with it."

Dick raises his head only slightly, hesitant.

It's the last part of Bruce's offer that makes up his mind.

Bruce is giving him a choice, offering him the chance to back out of it if he so desires.

He nods. "Okay."

Bruce stands, wiping his palms against his pants- Dick notices he's wearing a pair of normal sweats, an unusual choice for him- and offers him a hand up.

Dick accepts.

Bruce's presence beside him is like a shield of safety as they walk the hallways of the Manor, keeping the pressing darkness at bay.

Dick sticks closer to him than he otherwise would have.

He stops, startled, when he realizes that they've reached the Manor's front door.

"Bruce?"

He shoots the man an uncertain look.

"It's alright," Bruce assures him. "We're just going outside for a little bit."

Dick chews his lip and nods again. He trusts the man and so he goes with him out into the night.

Bruce shuts the door behind them and Dick notices that, while inside the Manor it had still been dark, what with the thick curtains and windowless halls, the sun has already started her climb over the horizon.

The front lawn is spacious- maybe as big as all of Haley's circus put together. There's a fountain too, a graceful statue of a lady standing atop it, water spilling from her uplifted palms.

And the gardens…

Bruce places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to one in particular.

It's smaller than any of the others, but there's something about this one that makes it stand out.

It's a rose garden, he realizes.

Bruce kneels on the grass beside it, cupping a yellow rose in his palm.

Confused, Dick kneels in the grass next to him.

There's some significance here- otherwise Bruce wouldn't have brought him out here- but Dick can't see what it is.

"My mother always loved roses," Bruce says softly and Dick's head snaps up. There's real pain in the man's voice. "I planted it soon after returning home."

There's something in the way that Bruce says that he was the one who planted this garden.

Dick had always assumed that Alfred was the one who did things like that- tending to the grounds and such. That Bruce was always too busy for those kinds of activities, but he thinks he understands.

Bruce wanted it to be his. _His _tribute to the memory of his mother.

And here he is, sharing it with Dick.

Something warm, yet painful swells in Dick's chest and he hastily wipes at his eyes, afraid that he might start crying here and now.

"If you wanted, maybe we could plant your own garden right here next to this one. Or… anywhere. Anywhere you want. For your mother."  
Dick nods quickly, a little too quickly, aware that the tears are now dangerously close to spilling over.

"She liked… l-larkspurs."

Fitting, he thinks. It fit in with the whole bird theme.

He buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking violently.

Bruce's strong hand lands on his shoulder, offering him comfort.

"Larkspurs," he says softly. "Often used to symbolize love."

Symbolizing love.

His mother used to tell him that in that sappy, dreamy voice she sometimes used. They were the flowers his father had always brought her for her anniversary.

"_Purple flowers… first love. And your father was always my first love."_

"_Yuck, Mom! Do we have to talk about this now?"_

At the time, it had seemed incredibly cheesy and his younger self had wanted _nothing _to do with talks on flowers and love.

But now- now he can see why his mother, so gentle and compassionate and _loving,_ would have been drawn to them.

He smiles through the tears.


End file.
